The King and the Ranger
by madwaysz
Summary: Set in mid-evil times, Lord John of Bartholomew yearns for adventure outside the castle walls and that is just what he finds when befriending the ranger Sherlock Holmes. (Rating my change later in the story)
1. Chapter 1

With every waking moment John became more and more unbearably bored with life. Even sitting upon a throne of silver and gold he could not see the point. Nor could he come to terms of where he was sitting. Ever since his father died in battle and he was crowned king of Bartholomew the painful boredom seemed to sting him ever more than before. He never wanted to be king, he never wanted to rule a kingdom, nor did he want to sit upon this god awful, uncomfortable chair and listen to the citizens of his kingdom complain for hours on end. John stared out the window, now ignoring the man kneeling before him begging for gold to send his daughter to somewhere off in the west to marry a wealthy lord. He wanted to be out there, going on adventures and quests. The man before him again begged.

"My Lord, this marriage will bring our family more wealth and happiness, when we receive the money we shall repay the debt, I swear," just then John noticed the man's daughter standing behind him, a look of sorrow painted upon her face, tears wetting her eyes.

"Why do you look so troubled, my dear?" John questioned, smiling at the girl. She was very pretty. Long brown hair flowing out from under a knitted hat, big eyes, and soft pink lips.

"I am not troubled, my Lord," She curtseyed. John stood, his crown wobbling with every step he took toward the girl. God, he hated his crown. He passed the man, who was looking up at John.

"Indeed you are, dear. For I can see it within your eyes, they water with every word, do not wish to be married?" John placed his hand upon the girls arm.

"I wish to make my family happy, it is my duty," she whispered, her voice quivering.

"What is your name, your father had not mentioned it,"

"Molly," she muttered, now looking down at her shoes.

"Molly," he sighed. "If you do not wish to marry speak now, for I shall not force you to," She looked up at him, a smile upon her lips. Such pretty lips.

"I do not wish to marry a man I have not yet seen, lord or not, for marriage is an act of love, not wealth," her voice was faintly bitter. John smiled brightly.

"You are a very wise woman, indeed. I, too, believe marriage is for love," John turned back to the man, who now appeared angry. "If it is money you seek, money I shall give. If my lady approves I shall take her as my handmaiden, for I take to her fondly. Three gold pieces a day, I would find that is sufficient," The man's eyes widened. "Molly, only if you would like," Molly smiled as she curtseyed.

"It would be an honor, my lord," John began walking back to his throne.

"If that is all, I shall see it a knight is to escort you from your home to the palace tomorrow when the sun is at it's highest. Pack your belongings and I shall have you stay in a room of your choice," The man stood, bowing, and thanking him. Molly only smiled.

When the two had left, John dismissed the guards before him. He hated them as well. Quickly he shed off his crown and the ugly green cape his father had passed down to him. They weighed a ton, John hated them. The hall was empty leaving him to his thoughts. He could not stand one more day of this boredom. Of being confined to the walls of his palace. He was constantly watched. Constantly told what his father would have done. Told of how he was too soft to be king. Too kind to the peasants and the workers of the palace. Where was the fault in being nice to those who catered to him? It seemed the right thing to do in his mind. He exited the hall towards the gate leading out the palace. Quickly, before one of the knights noticed he was leaving without an escort, he slipped into the alleyway that led out into the forests behind the grounds. He felt his heart lighten as he stepped out into the open, the green around him glittering with droplets of rain that had fallen the night before. Quickly he rushed through the forest toward his secret place.

Yes, he had a secret place. He hid all his things the court would not approve of there. Mostly books, drawings, and some of his own writings. Ever since he was a child he his things in there, animals he father would not let him keep, toys, and small gifts the citizens had given him. His father did not like him doing anything but working. Studying the lands of the world, fighting, and readying himself to become ruler of Bartholomew. He, and the court, were very strict on John, even now that he was the king. He thought when he became ruler he would have the freedom he wanted, he was wrong. Far into the forest, behind a bundle of think weed and trees, was a small opening into the side of a great hill. The opening was hidden by a large sheet of rock John placed there so no one would come across his secret place. The hole was just big enough for John to have slipped a mattress from the palace into. The court still thinks a guard stole it. John slid the rock onto its side and slipped inside. The inside was black. John placed his hand onto the wall that lead deeper into the cave. From what John knew the cave was made by the people who inhabited Bartholomew before it was taken over by his great, great, great, great, grandfather. It was neatly chiseled into a smooth hallway, leading into a single large room with indentations along the walls large enough for John to place his books and candles along them. As John walked deeper into the rock the sound of music grew louder. John drew his dagger from his belt and held it before him. The end of the hall was faintly lit. He stood in the dark, listening intently to the beautiful sounds of a violin. Who had found his secret place? John entered the large room containing his things, his most secret things. In the middle of the room stood a tall man, black hair curling around atop his head, his black clothes tight around his thin body. The man stood facing away from John, his pale hands sweeping a dirty, crumbling bow across a slightly off tune old violin that looked as if it were to snap in half any second. The music was a solemn one, but beautiful.

"Excuse me," John snapped, holding his dagger before him. The man stopped his playing, spinning on his heals. "Oh, you're here!" The man smiled. John was awestruck by his beauty. The man was pale as snow, lips pink and tin. His eyes, lit my the few candles lit around the room, were shimmering with a color John had yet to see before. He was, beautiful, more beautiful than any man he has ever seen. "Very nice place you have here, my name is Sherlock Holmes,"


	2. Chapter 2

John had thought with the level of care he had put into concealing his secret place that no one would be able to find it. Now that he was staring into the eyes of a complete stranger he knew himself to be wrong. He held the dagger before him, slowly stepping closer to Sherlock Holmes.  
"How did you find this place?" John questioned trying to use that voice his father would have used, strong, powerful, but it instead sounded scared and meek. The man placed his violin upon the small table John had built years before and began to walk about the room. His long pale fingers fiddled with the trinkets upon the dirt shelfs and traced the bindings of the books that piled about the room.  
"It was very easy, I followed you hear," Sherlock stated, his voice deep and sensual.  
"Do you know who I am?" John asked, his hands now holding tighter to the handle of his blade. Sherlock laughed lightly.  
"Of course I do, you are Lord Jonathan Hamish Watson, son to the former king," Sherlock Holmes brought his attention back to John. "You are the king of Bartholomew, a very unhappy one," John could see Sherlock's eyes scanning over his body.

"Unhappy?" John began to lower his blade.

"Yes, you do not wish to be king. Nor do you even want to be in Bartholomew. The

question is why haven't you left yet," he brought his hands up and thoughtfully brought them beneath his chin.  
"How did you know that?" John let his blade fall to his side.  
"You do not wear your crown, nor that hideous cape you father did. Your attire is nothing like a proud king, wrinkled, average, and not very expensive. You wear shoes that of a commoner, perhaps because you lack the liking of luxurious items. They're caked with mud, mud is not very common on the palace grounds. You, instead of staying in the castle come here, hidden, away from the town. You immerse yourself in adventurous stories and drawings of dragons. You, John, do not want to be king," John was silent, astounded by how a man he had just met could know something no one knew about him.  
"That was,"  
"Witch craft," Sherlock muttered, his eyes falling to the floor.  
"Amazing," John finished. Sherlock looked up, a questioning look upon his face.

"Most would accuse me working with black magic,"

"No, you do not look the sort," He looked at me quizzically. For an odd reason I could not understand I felt no threat from this man, despite the fact he was a stranger who had me in a cave at least two miles away from any other living man. I began to walk about the room, lighting the candles that lined the walls and shelves. Sherlock watched at the lord lit the wicks of every candle, studying his movements. He did not walk like a king, with that sort of dominance and pride. If he did not know any better he would have guessed John to have been a normal citizen. With the small fires lighting the room Sherlock could see more of his surroundings. Books lined the shelves along the stone walls, they also piled on the desk and around the floor. Sherlock guessed there were about three hundred books in the small room. The desk also contained a number of leather bound books and several quills and jars of ink, John's own writing. In the middle of the room was a bed, big enough to comfortably fit two people. A gray blanket was crumpled on top, a small magnifying glass resting in the middle. Sherlock grabbed the glass and made is was around the room, studying the small trinkets that were scattered about the room, toys from when he was a child, a few swards leaning against the walls and one large marble dragon, its scales glittering with red and black stones, its eyes a rich brown gem. It seemed out of place in this small room. Obviously the most expensive thing here, something that did look very king like. John sat upon the bed that lay on the ground watcher Sherlock as he dashed about from thing to thing studying every inch of it with the glass.  
"That's," John began to explain as Sherlock picked up the stone dragon.  
"A gift," Sherlock stated before John could finish. "From your mother, given to you as you were a child. Very precious to you, and valuable," Sherlock set it back down among the papers and quills. John's questioning face looked up at him from the bed, how soft that bed looked. "You're not very keen to valuable things as it appears with all the cheap objects around the room, but this is at least worth 500 gold pieces. The fact you kept it means it holds a sentimental value. On the bottom left foot there is a small EW, Elizabeth Watson, your mother. The fact your mother passed when you were a child leaves that she could have only given it to you when you were a child,"  
"Simple, it seems so simple when you say it out loud and yet I cannot believe it when you say it," a small smile tainted Sherlock's lips. He liked John much more than he had expected.  
Sherlock began to play his violin again, the ghostly song filling the room with a beautiful hum. John laid upon the bed, gazing up at his stranger. Such a strange feeling washed over him, this man, this mysterious man who seemed to know everything about him with one glance, was perfect. John felt perfectly safe with him, perfectly calm and excepted. John sat up,, scratching at the back of his head.  
"Why are you here?" he asked slowly. Sherlock stopped playing.  
"I've seen you, while about in the town," he set his bow back upon the strings and slowly began to sweep them back and forth. "I saw you sneaking from the walls of the castle sending children with money to buy you books and ink," he began to shut his eyes. "You seemed, interesting, so I came to find out what you really are," John's face was utterly confused.  
"What I really am?" he stood, just inches from Sherlock's face.  
"You're not a king, you're not royalty. You are, something else. Something, interesting," He let his arms drop. Cautiously John moved in closer.  
"Interesting? You're the most interesting man I have yet to meet. Who are you?" Sherlock gazed down into John's eyes. The stranger's eyes were of the most beautiful color John had ever seen, light and endless, blue, green, and colors yet to be known by men. John felt as if in those eyes hid the heaven and the most breath taking adventures.  
"I am a ranger, I have no home, no money, and no one,"  
"A ranger," John repeated, astounded. He had been told stories of rangers, hideous and thieving. He would never expect such a wonderful creature to be a ranger. "I have been told many stories of rangers in my past, none have uttered anything of what you seem to be,"  
"And what do I seem to be?" Sherlock asked, his eyebrow arching and sly smile touching his lips. John's body urged him to reach up and touch his pale skin, brush those sly lips.  
"Just what I needed," John smiled.

* * *

**been a while, sorry :/ finals and things. :C hope you enjoyed :D**


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